


Painted up for War

by Muccamukk



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon Era, Caretaking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e01 Currahee, Episode: s01e02 Day of Days, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Missing Scene, Non-Sexual Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 20:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20512832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/pseuds/Muccamukk
Summary: Putting on each other's greasepaint had become a ritual.





	Painted up for War

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fill the Loose Lips Sink Ships prompt: Bill/Joe: "Putting on grease paint."

The first few night jumps back in McCall, Joe and Bill had figured it was faster to black out each other's faces than to to their own peering into a scrap of shaving kit mirror. Since then it'd turned into a ritual.

Joe showed up an hour before lift off for the big jump and waved a tin of bootblack in the air. He was half way geared up, but didn't have his mae west or chutes on yet, and his face was scrubbed as clean as Bill's.

Bill jerked his chin up in agreement and held still as Joe opened the tin and covered Bill's cheeks in a few quick swipes. He circled back to get in close around Bill's eyes and then down his neck and all up into Bill's hairline. His big hands moved swiftly, and his touch was light as a broad putting on powder.

"You forgot my ears," Bill said, like he always did, and instead of turning his head, made Joe lean in. Joe's sleeve brushed against Bill's cheek, and for just a moment his breath was hot on Bill's forehead. His fingers pinched a little as he rubbed the paint into the shell of Bill's ear.

As Joe shifted over to get Bill's other ear, they stood close enough to kiss, and Bill couldn't help thinking of the last time he'd had Joe all to himself. It was a memory that turned him on as much as it made him wish they'd had the chance to... but now that Bill thought of it, he didn't know that he regretted a damn thing. The only thing he'd have to regret was if he fucked up this jump, and he'd be damned if he did that.

"Now don't go getting sentimental on me," Joe told him. He stepped back and wiped the rest of the grease off his fingers onto the back of his own neck.

"Ha. You confuse me with Malark?" Bill took the tin from him. Joe'd shaved that afternoon, and his skin was still smooth under Bill's fingertips. It was starting to rain, so Bill worked quickly. It'd stick for days once it was on. Joe turned his head and lifted his chin so that Bill could get all along his jawline.

Bill's fingers paused over his pulse point, but he made himself not think about how this time it could be the real thing, the last time he touched Joe's throat and felt the beat of his heart fluttering against his fingertips, like it did when Bill pressed his head to Joe's chest when they rubbed off against each other, or when he shifted his grip pulling Joe to his feet, making it so that his fingers pushed at the spot just below Joe's thumb.

Angry with at letting himself as soppy as Joe said, Bill swiped his fingers over the rest of Joe's neck, leaving it blotched and streaky. Irregular patches were harder to see in the night anyway; it'd make Joe safer. Bill slammed the tin shut and stepped back. He pocketed it instead of giving it back.

"Take care up there, huh?" Joe said.

Bill shook his head like he'd never heard anything stupider. "Joe. We're on the same damn plane."

Joe just shrugged and looked at Bill for a long moment before turning away without saying a damn word. He went to look after his rifle squad; Bill went to find his mortar boys, and that was that.

Except five minutes later Meehan was telling them all that the jump was off, and they all had to do this bullshit again in twenty four hours. Bill yelled his guys into order, dumped his gear under the plane, scrubbed the grease off his face and stomped off to find something to kill time. He already knew he wouldn't sleep, and he couldn't picture that anyone else would either.

Somewhere in between changing out of his harness and ditching half his gear, he ended up with Johnny's jacket. His whole world shifted under him, then, like he was on the deck of a ship. He didn't remember a thing about the damn movie, just sitting there staring at the screen trying not to cry in front of the fellows.

When the picture was done, Bill walked until he found somewhere dark, and wept.

Scrubbing the last of the tears off his face smeared the backs of his hands with traces of bootblack. Bill stared at them and wondered what Henry had looked like when he'd been hit. Had he been fighting all blacked out like this? Or had it been in daylight? Bill thought of the hundreds of ways a guy could buy it in combat, then thought of jeep accidents and drunken escapades, but no, that wasn't his brother. I couldn't be. Henry had to have died fighting. 

Bill realised that he was crying again, and knew that this wasn't going to do any of them any good. Him getting sloppy would just end up with his ma having two dead kids on her hands.

He couldn't afford any more tears, not when there was a continent full of Germans just waiting for a bullet from his M1 or a well-placed mortar. With Henry gone, Bill was going to have to do enough killing for two Guarnere brothers.

Bill avoided everyone for the rest of the night, and caught catnaps against sand bags that afternoon. He must have been wearing some kind of _fuck off_ sign, because mostly the fellows stayed clear. That or Johnny had blabbed, and they were all fucking pitying him.

Chow, another nap, then gearing up again. It felt like six months had passed and like it'd been minutes. Bill fished the tin of boot black out of his pockets and started to do his face by feel.

Before he had the first swipe of the stuff on, Joe caught his wrist, his massive, coal-miner's hands tougher than steal and just as hard to break out of.

"Joe," Bill protested, each word feeling like glass shattering in his throat. "Joe, for once, I got this."

"No you ain't," Joe said. He squeezed down on Bill's wrist and pried the tin from his fingers. "You want to jinx me, or what?"

There wasn't anything Bill could say to that, so he tipped his chin up and let Joe do the rest of his face. It was easy to look right past Joe like you looked past a doc when he squeezed your nuts. All Bill had to do was focus on the pale grey clouds behind Joe's shoulder. they were starting to turn pink with the sunset. He could see the tail of one of the skytrains, too, though it wasn't his and Joe's.

Joe seemed to be taking his time about Bill's face. His hands moved slower than usual, his fingers finding all the little corners that it didn't really matter if they were covered. It was less like the day before, and more like the times Joe got soppy and decided to kiss every inch of Bill's skin. When Joe's thumb rubbed the paint into swirls along the edge of Bill's nose, his fingertips felt rough and soft at the same time, the touch of skin on skin the warmest thing Bill had ever felt,

Bill looked up for just look enough to catch Joe's eye, then cut his eyes back to the clouds and muttered, "You drawing a picture on there, or what?"

"Yeah, of my cock," Joe said. He cut through the grease with his thumbnail, making three long curves on Bill's cheek. Before Bill could clock him good, Joe smoothed the lines out with his thumb.

Joe stepped away, but didn't give the tin back to Bill, and Bill knew that Joe was waiting for him to remind about his ears. Bill wanted to, but the problem was that the world just felt so different now, that saying the same words again didn't feel decent. He stared at the plane, trying to remember what platoon was going on it, not wondering if it's make it across the channel in one piece.

"Aw, hell," Joe grumbled. He grabbed Bill around the back of his neck and pulled him in until his forehead was almost touching Joe's chest. Holding him pinned there, Joe he roughly rubbed the greasepaint over both of Bill's ears. His fingers pinched like they always did. Joe smelled like that awful anti-gas shit the army'd soaked all their uniforms in. It stung Bill's eyes, and he blinked hard, glad that tears couldn't wash trails through the boot black on his cheeks. Joe held onto the back of Bill's neck for a few seconds longer than he needed to, then stepped away briskly, holding the tin out to Bill.

Bill took it, focusing on the gleam of metal in Joe's big hands. Joe'd already covered those in paint. Bill wondered how much this reminded him of coal dust in Pittston. Joe'd said he never liked being filthy all the time, but then he'd become a soldier.

The problem with putting grease on Joe's face was that now Bill had to look at him. Bill tried to put his attention to the smear of the boot black across Joe's skin, and not the too familiar shape of the features under his touch. It didn't work.

Joe had wide, blunt cheekbones and that boxer's nose that Bill had immediately said were funny looking, while at the same time wanting to get his hands all over them. He'd managed to do that pretty fast, and gotten to find out what Joe's rough voice sounded like saying Bill's name when Bill had his hand wrapped around Joe's dick. Bill'd also heard it singing off key to get everyone's spirits up, or to piss Malarkey off, heard it reaming someone out, heard it soft and sentimental when Joe'd been drinking, heard how it cracked when Joe cried because he missed home so much, even though he hated Pittston.

In a few hours, Bill was gone to know what Joe sounded like when he was killing for real. He wasn't going to hear nothing about...

A few more swipes of the paint, and Joe's neck was done.

Bill looked Joe in the eyes, blinked hard, and said, "You better look after your guys over there, huh?"

"I ain't planning to lose none of them," Joe replied. He caught Bill's wrist and took the tin back again. His fingers squeezed down like a vice grip.

He didn't say anything about Henry, but he didn't have to.

"Gotta go find Johnny," Bill said, and turned away.

He'd see Joe later, on the plane, hear him screaming "Currahee!" over the engines and prop blast as he jumped. They'd find each other a few minutes after landing, their faces blacked out and unmistakable in the darkness and rain.

Then he'd find out what Joe sounded like in combat, and wouldn't have to think about any of the alternatives. Bill killed as many Germans as he could, and thought of Henry every time.

Two mornings later, they were sitting in the ruins of some frog town only Nixon knew the name of. They were all exhausted, but Bill kept telling himself this wasn't much worse than that damn march to Atlanta, and at least it was warmer.

Joe'd been hit by two grenades and lost most of the skin on his right arm, but refused to even go to an aid station, no matter how much Bill or Compton had yelled at him. Bill guessed Joe must being doing all right anyway because he hadn't stopped gripping yet.

Now, he was slouched against a wall, long legs spread out as he cradled his M1 in his lap. He was scratching notches in the stock with the tip of his trench knife. Bill should probably do the same before he lost track of what had happened, but he didn't have the energy to move.

Bill's shoulder was resting against Joe's like it had been on the plane. Both their uniforms were wet through, and Bill could feel the warmth of Joe's body though the cotton. He slid a bit closer so that their arms touched along their whole length and their knees bumped whenever Joe moved the rifle.

When Joe was done, he brushed the shavings of wood off with his his nail and set the rifle to lean against the wall at his other shoulder.

His weapon taken care of, Joe turned to Bill. He spat on a grimy handkerchief and, without asking, started to wipe at the greasepaint on Bill's cheeks. As it came off on the cloth, Bill couldn't tell what was boot black and what was blood or dirt. Bill didn't know why Joe was bothering, but the swipe of the cloth felt damn good, so Bill tipped his head back against the wall and let Joe do what he wanted.

Joe refolded the cloth, spat on it again, and took Bill's chin between his fingers to turn his head to get the other cheek. He wasn't saying a word, but he kept his hold on Bill's chin as he wiped every speck of dirt off Bill's face. Bill thought of that old tabby that had lived under the steps licking her kittens clean, and his chest felt too tight to breathe.

To get Bill's right ear, Joe had to lean across his body and just about hug Bill. His breath smelled like smokes and that apple brandy they'd all been into. Bill rested his forehead against Joe's neck and closed his eyes, letting him scrub behind Bill's ears and along the collar of his ODs. At least the rain had washed most of the anti-gas shit out of their uniforms, but now everyone reeked to high heaven anyway.

"There you go," Joe said when he leaned back. "Clean as a whistle."

"Meaning I got your spit all over me?" Bill asked. He did feel cleaner though, almost like a new man, ready to move into the new day of fighting.

Joe raised an eyebrow. "Not _all_ over you."

Bill snorted. "Have to find time for that later."

Joe nodded at the men scattered across the town square in pairs or little bunches, the truck rumbling past, the rubble, the harried medics, the officers with their heads together talking seriously. "One more day, and General Taylor says we'll be relieved," Joe commented, which made Bill laugh.

"Sure," Bill said. He hadn't believed that when Taylor had said it, and it looked even less likely now. "What're you going to do with your liberty?"

"You, for starters," Joe said. He laughed too, which was Bill's favourite sound in the world right now.

"That how you think it's going to go?" Bill asked.

"You bet it is." Joe slouched down further against the wall. He slung one arm around his M1, pulling it tight to his side, then the other arm around Bill's shoulders. "Just wait until we're in Paris. I'll get you all gussied up and take you out on the town."

"When we're in Paris, we'll see about that," Bill said.


End file.
